


hoc voluerunt

by taranoire



Series: Points of View [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pre-Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: *Redux of Hubris.*Your name is Imogene of House Hadriana, and you will do anything to claim a seat in the Imperial Senate. You anticipated struggles, but you could never have predicted Leto.
Relationships: Danarius/Fenris (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: Points of View [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/492493
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	hoc voluerunt

**Author's Note:**

> This is a semi-rewrite of a work I posted some years ago called "Hubris." It has been heavily edited for canon compliance, though it also includes personal theories and conjecture based on gaps in existing lore. While the POV is Hadriana's in second person, this work operates primarily as backstory focusing on Leto/Fenris, with the intention of feeling as close to what we know of canon as possible.

You do not weep when you are born but emerge silent and scowling as if merely perturbed to leave the warmth of the womb. Mater wrinkles her nose and passes you to her slave, a frail, half-deaf elf trained as midwife and housekeeper, and never takes you into her arms again. You will only know her touch in the form of a closed fist or open hand.

The slave becomes your primary caregiver. She tidies your bedroom, watches as you frolic in the house gardens, and chides you when you throw rocks at other children. She mends your dresses when you tear them, comes to your bed when you cry out in the night, and sings you dark, mournful lullabies in a language that sleeps. She smells like lavender and earth. Her quick fingers pain her, and yet she always offers to braid your hair and weave pretty things into it. She knows a bit about medicine, and alchemy, and one of her tonics tastes like honey and sinks deep inside your chest to warm winter colds away. 

You spy her as she powders her wrinkled face on more than one occasion, hiding intricate green tattoos.

“ _Vallaslin_ ,” she says when you ask. “My blood, and special ink.”

“Do they hurt?” 

“Not anymore, _dulcis_.”

You call her Sophia, though she had another name once.

*

With little to do as the wife of an accomplished vintner, mater’s fondness for soirees is unquestionable. When she holds her parties in the villa overlooking your father’s fragrant vineyards, you hide and watch from behind the bannisters of the stairwell, an unwelcome child amid grown women. Masks are fashionable in Qarinus, this summer, and today you make a game of guessing what mask hides which lady. Their bones press at paper-thin flesh, and they vomit in designated urns so that they might continuously eat.

Pater, bored from lack of masculine company, drinks himself stupid on the wine he stores in wooden casks in his private cellar. He disappears with a servant girl not much older than your sisters. You do not know the girl’s name.

You hear the ladies laugh at mater over the rim of goblets made of pewter instead of silver. They take note of the fraying hem of her dress, and the wine’s poor quality, watered-down so that it might last the length of the evening. Mater purses her lips in the way she does when her temper burns. Without warning, she snatches the hair of an elf-girl serving drinks and smashes a bottle of her husband’s vintage across her face.

Sophia hurries the girl out of the room, hand over her mouth so that she does not disturb noble ladies’ ears with her screams. She will likely be permanently blinded by the incident, and you wager that in the morning will be sold for a pittance.

With mater’s guests distracted, you creep out of your hiding place. You carefully pick up the broken shards of glass and hold them up to a window, your blue eyes fascinated as they take in the viscosity of blood and wine. There is raw power in it, subtle like a heartbeat, but how to tap into it eludes you.

*

On your sixth birthday, you open the silver bird cage in your elder sister’s room and let the white dove within perch delicately on your finger. You bring it out into the gardens where your sister entertains a young man she intends to bed. She peers over the young man’s shoulder, curious, but otherwise says nothing, intent on impressing her paramour and unconcerned by a little sister’s mischief.

You set the bird on the ground, and then lift a heavy garden stone. You drop it on the bird, blood and feathers gushing out from beneath the rock. Your sister screams, a high piercing noise that echoes about the courtyard.

“I’ll kill you!” she cries out, as the boy holds her at bay. “You spiteful, evil little wretch! I’ll kill you, Imogene!”

As punishment, your mother bids that you sit on the cold hard ground of the courtyard well into the night, to look upon the stone and the mangled remains of the bird and reflect on the pain you have wrought against your own blood. You wonder why you feel nothing at all, even after lifting the stone off the ground to stare upon the creature.

You take out the silver whittling knife you stole from among Sophia’s few possessions, and slice into your finger, blood pearling out. You close your eyes and whisper your intent. You command the bird to _move._ A wet, crunching sound emanates from its broken beak, and it stirs haphazardly, body contorting. Not truly alive, but reanimated, a monstrosity of willpower.

You cradle it in your hands and take it inside, tossing it upon the table where your family sups upon the evening meal. Their eyes linger upon it in horror as it tries to flap broken wings.

“I can kill it again, if you prefer,” you say.

*

Throughout their lives your parents have borne the shame of being _laetan_ in name alone, a rotting branch of descendants allegedly tracing back to Archon Hadrianus. Their blood is more iron than mana, and when they brought yet another generation of mundane into the world, they despaired at the thought of groveling in the mud like the _soporati_. After your magic manifests, the burden of your family’s status shifts to you, and instead of being celebrated as you expected, their cruelty transforms from apathy to iron-clad control.

For a long while you are sequestered in your bedchamber away from the rest of the family, allowed only the company of your nursemaid and a private tutor. You create a game of driving your educators away by any means necessary. The unluckiest is the young mage apprentice, Francine, who claims to have been strangled half-dead by unseen hands as she slept. You are the picture of innocence. 

On a cold, misty morning, mater commands you to pack your things into a single trunk. You watch as Sophia fills it with sparse personal possessions—a few silk fans and a pretty dress, a bottle of your father’s wine, the silver carving knife that she has never reclaimed—and do not think to thank her for it. She dresses you and brushes your hair and sees you to the door, where a carriage led by two horses awaits.

“Where am I going?” you ask mater, though you know already.

“To restore House Hadriana’s honor,” mater says. “You will not return until it is done.”

You hesitate at the threshold, on the precipice between childhood and destiny. You embrace Sophia, one last time, and she looks down at you with a thin, sad smile. Then you are guided into the carriage and your journey begins. You peer out through the rear window, but the mist is strong, and the estate vanishes quickly in a veil of gray.

*

The Circle in Minrathous is not a dingy prison but the most prestigious arcane university in the known world. Ancient but well-preserved, it towers above the crumbling metropolis, a miracle of stone terraces, archways, elaborate mosaics, and gardens for work and for pleasure. Each school of magic is represented by its own Senior Enchanter that actively serves in the Imperial Senate. For you first few years as an Apprentice, you dip your toes into each school’s waters, but never submerge entirely.

You establish a comforting and quiet routine. You wake in a feather bed and have breakfast tea in your private apartment overlooking Minrathous’s _palacia_. You engage in stimulating debates with the brightest minds in the Imperium during the mid-morning _sermo_ , followed by grueling lectures led by no-nonsense Senior Enchanters. In the evenings you spend long hours in the moratorium testing theoretical spells upon deceased prisoners and _fugitivus._ On rest days you mingle with _laetan_ socialites, and explore brief, chaste romances with handsome apprentices that go nowhere. 

Life is quiet, but good, and when you think of home you think only of your sisters—fat, stupid, dull, and waiting for equally vapid _soporati_ men to fill them with mundane seed.

*

The first spirit you become acquainted with is a gentle wisp called Confidence, who is drawn to your childlike will to survive in a nest of vipers. She appears to you as a pale blue orb in your dreams, offering sweetly worded praise and earnest encouragement. You enjoy her company, and when she asks to be let inside you, smiling prettily in her silk gown, you accept. Confidence follows you in your waking hours, a subtle whisper in your ear, a shadow in the mirror, a pearl of faith when you cast your spells.

Without Confidence, you would never have passed your Harrowing. But then it is done, and you are officially inducted as a Circle mage in your sixteenth year. 

*

The Tevinter sun is hot even behind a shroud of haze, and you sweat beneath layers of dark red velvet and heavy burnished plates. You have brushed your hair, curled it, and decorated it with an elaborate beaded mesh. Confidence reminds you that you are beautiful, a crimson rose among the aging weeds of the Tevinter court.

“Choke them out,” she whispers. “ _Dulcis,_ you have thorns.”

You are surrounded by the echelons of Minrathous nobility in the sprawling hanging gardens of the Proving Arena, green and white and gold. The wine is plentiful, the air thick with salt, and the elves blissfully silent. Gossamer cloth covers their mouths to hide their lipless mouths and severed tongues. With so many noble-blooded men trading secrets, it would not do well for a little rabbit to scurry off with grains to barter. 

You meet your prospective patron with a deep bow instead of the customary delicate curtsy. 

“Honored Magister Claudius Danarius, it is pleasing to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard much about your prowess in the world of academia, and your recognition of my Circle thesis left me speechless, to say the least.” 

It becomes clear Claudius does not recognize you, if his arched brows are any indication, and his conversational partners echo your suspicions as they titter to themselves. It is not politically fashionable to mock a woman for her sex in the modern Tevinter court but nonetheless occurs. That you are so bold in the company of older men is seen as crass, but you are undaunted.

The magister’s personal attendant, a pretty elf with golden hair, speaks on your behalf. His accent is Antivan. “ _Dominus,_ this is Lady Imogene of House Hadriana, _laetan_ and Mage of the Minrathous Circle of Magi.”

There is a pause as Claudius appraises you. “Thank you, _meus_ Hyacinth. I remember now.” He wrinkles his nose. “Your paper regarding the practical applications of death magic sparked a few conversations in the Spire. To say your thoughts on the nature of soul were merely interesting would be a discredit to your effort. Killing the corporeal form, but leaving the soul in suspension on this side of the Veil?”

“I have thoroughly combed through the Arcanist Hall archives, and found no mention of its use,” you say, to emphasize the novel potential of the idea.

“It has not been mentioned because it is not possible,” the unknown magister standing beside Danarius says, his bald head gleaming with oil. He stops a passing elf with a sharp whistle and a snap, helping himself to a goblet of wine. “The rules of magic may be bent but not broken. A vessel with its contents spilled upon the rug cannot simply refill itself.”

“Now, now, Corinius,” Magister Danarius says, gently. “The girl’s grasp of the arcane is indeed rudimentary, her theories elementary presuppositions borne of naivete. But consider that few mages ever cast their nets into the seas of academic theory at all, let alone one of her age.” 

You must choose your words wisely. “I presuppose nothing, nor do I claim that it is possible to resurrect the dead. My theory specifically concludes that any number of procedures could be performed on a damaged body, while the spirit is held in stasis.”

“Theory is admirable, but the magisterium prides itself on _results_.” He gives you a pointed look. 

You push your shoulders back. “Then I intend to prove it to you, Magister Danarius.”

The deep wail of the Proving horn echoes throughout the gardens. The elves disappear with timid, soft-falling steps, pale at the sound, as if they are dogs trained to scamper. You wonder if there are hidden doors behind the foliage. 

“This discussion will have to resume later, I’m afraid; I have a deep love of sport and I hate to miss a match. I am glad to have met you, Lady Hadriana,” Claudius says with a polite nod. “I look forward to seeing your work firsthand.” 

*

The moment they laid eyes on you, then pinned you down as a child might a butterfly. Lady Imogene Hadriana, they say, is less a mage and more a practiced magician. They only let her in because her lineage allegedly traces back to Archon Hadrianus, but less than a drop of blood would bear his scent. She is a whore, a viper, and a charlatan.

Well, that is what they say.

It is true that you must hide the limitations of your mana and your power. You chant, you divine, you summon, and you take great pains to understand the minutiae of even the most basic spells. The spirits ignore you when you call upon them, preferring to vie for the attentions of lesser mages already training for the paper-pushing of the lower senate. Even Confidence was a weak, timid little thing when she answered your soft plea in the dark.

You do what you can, what you must.

So, you do spread your legs for the Circle Enchanters, coaxing them with sweet words and warm wine and the false promise that your womb is barren. You _do_ lead the Apprentices astray, convincing them that risk is its own reward and smiling as they foolishly set themselves aflame or make bargains with demons they cannot resist. You feed Confidence your worst qualities in your desperation, turning the quiet and friendly spirit into a ravenous, wrathful being that surges your spellpower threefold.

She appears in your silver hand-mirror and tells you to devour them before they realize the flower has teeth.

*

You finally release the slave from your spell and withdraw your silver hand-mirror so that you might hold it up to his mouth. His breath fogs the glass, proving that he yet lives. Your audience does not clap or enthuse audibly as you expect but drop their heads to their parchment papers to scratch a few notes. 

Magister Danarius meets your eyes. His expression is unclear. “ _Occidere eum_.”

“ _Dominus_?”

“ _Occidere eum,_ Imogene. Quickly.”

You nod and draw your blade across the unconscious elf’s throat. He makes a gurgling noise but otherwise does not move as blood drips down off the table. You stare at the slave’s body and wait for further instructions.

The elf was sixty-two years old and had developed an uncontrolled growth in his liver. He volunteered for the demonstration today. While you held his spirit in a cocoon of stasis, sleeping in the Fade, you cut the growth from his liver and purified his blood. The operation was a success, but now you wonder if Magister Danarius thought otherwise.

You will need to send coin to the slave’s master. He was no longer worth much, but it is the principle of the thing, and you know that you cannot afford to lose any friends.

“Lady Hadriana,” Danarius says, “meet me in my office at the conclusion of today’s lecture.”

*

Magister Danarius’s office is warm and sunny and smells of old books and the faint sharpness of lyrium dust. A tropical bird perches comfortably on a small tree with brilliant crimson petals. Varnished display cases hold what you assume are elven artifacts, gilded with silver and gold and shimmering pleasantly as if with ancient enchantments. 

“At sixteen years old, you chose to specialize in both death magic and physiology,” the magister says, offering a chair with a gesture of his hand. “Death magic is a favorite initial interest of adolescent mages—until they realize the tedium and work involved. It does you great credit that you persisted, but what truly fascinates me is your skill in medicine.”

An explanation is in order, but you came prepared.

“Magic and medicine are inextricably linked,” you say. “I cannot truly be a healer unless I understand both. But do not mistake my interest for altruism, Magister Danarius; I have little to no qualms about inflicting death or pain.”

“I know,” Danarius says. He feeds his bird from the palm of his hand. “That is why I asked you to kill the specimen on the table.”

A test, then—and one that you passed. You close your eyes and allow yourself a sigh of relief.

“What are your ambitions, Lady Hadriana?”

You smooth your skirts, to have something to do with your hands. “Would you like the truth, _dominus,_ or the expectations of those who think they know me?”

“Both, if you please, and then I will provide my own opinion should you desire it.”

“Very well,” you say, and consider your words carefully. “It is no secret that the Tevinter Imperium is slowly dying. We were great once, and we could be again. There are those who believe that I would best serve the empire by using my magic as a weapon against our enemies, and they would be correct. Our prisoners would beg for death from me and I would not give it to them easily.”

“I see. And your personal ambitions?”

“I would ascend the ranks of the Circle, and petition for a seat in the Magisterium. I would bring honor and glory to House Hadriana, and help usher the Imperium into a new golden era: Dumat in His proper place in our houses of worship, citizens and slaves of all ranks prospering in their stations, and our enemies utterly annihilated.”

The magister turns away from his bird to smile at you warmly. “It’s rather interesting, Lady Hadriana, how closely your desires mirror my own. It is rare to find a mage who will pronounce loyalty to the Old Gods so readily. That is why, at great risk and cost to myself, I am willing to offer formal apprenticeship to a young mage of no significant rank.”

Your breath catches. “Magister Danarius?”

“Yes, Lady Hadriana,” the magister says, sitting down at his desk. He withdraws a thick scroll enclosed with his house’s seal, and hands it to you. “I have already drawn up the agreement and secured the signatures of the other Senior Enchanters. Your consent is all that is needed. I hope that you will find the terms agreeable.”

With shaking hands, you take the scroll and unfurl it, eyes skimming over the florid script. It is more than agreeable: a generous stipend, access to House Danarius’s personal library, and a guarantee of endorsement for the Magisterium at the culmination of seven years of service. You blink back tears, and nod at him.

“I have no choice but to accept.”

“You have every choice, child, but not all roads are wisely taken.” 

He watches you sign the contract, and then takes it back from you to store in a drawer for safekeeping. Your heart hammers beneath your ribs, and you can only beam at him—this man who has seen you for your true potential despite all of whispers and malcontent in the shadows.

“The work begins now,” Danarius says, “and I am afraid that you may not agree with my first command. Abandon your thesis. Cast your childish notions of death magic and healing from your mind. I have greater plans for you, and you cannot afford distractions.”

You swallow tightly, only briefly stymied with regret. Then you nod sharply. “As you wish, _dominus._ ”

He smiles. It does not quite reach his eyes. “Recently, I happened upon an ancient treatise of elven origin. It came to me pressed between the pages of an otherwise mundane book, describing a lost legacy of Elvhenan. Before I continue, I must ask—what do you know of _vallaslin,_ Lady Hadriana?”

An odd tangent. You remember your Sophia, tidying the estate back home and tending to your family even in her dotage. “My childhood nursemaid heralded from a Dalish clan. She said her vallaslin were made of blood and ink.”

A match alights in his eye. "Long ago, in the reign of Arlathan, the blood in their markings operated as sigils, binding them to the will of their masters. It granted them terrible power: they were arcane tools of their heathen gods, in a time where magic bled into reality as easily as water with wine. Now, it is all oil, but the magic is still possible.” 

“It is easy to forget the elves once commanded this world,” you say. It is so far from what they are now: waiflings, prostitutes, slaves, scratching the dirt and hoarding copper pieces for sawdust-pillowed bread.

“Their hubris and their defiance of Dumat doomed them,” Danarius says, coldly. “But it would be unwise to discredit them entirely. After I uncovered the treatise, a shadow in the form of a wolf came to me in the Fade as I slept. It revealed the location of the ancient elven weapon described within and invited me to find it.”

“And did you?”

“Indeed,” he says. “Buried deep underground in impenetrable darkness, rusted shut and half-broken. It has taken months, but I have finally restored it, and the time has come to discover its secrets. It creates _true vallaslin_ : lyrium and flesh in perfect harmony, imbuing warriors with the power to tear through the Veil itself.”

“You speak of enchanting a living body.”

“Indeed. But I am not deterred. I know lyrium better than I know flesh.” 

You smile. You have your doubts about that. “And what, exactly, could I do to assist you in your efforts? I am hardly Tranquil.”

“But you are a skilled blood-healer,” Claudius says. He gently clasps your hands in his. His skin is unnaturally cold. “I know you are not powerful in the traditional sense of the word. But if Tevinter was founded on tradition, the empire would have never taken root. If I attempted to use the sarcophagus without you, I fear that only death would follow. And there is no glory in that.”

*

Magister Danarius marks your first night at Castellum Tenebris with a decadent soiree. He spares no expense, procuring elegantly prepared dishes accented with silver leaf and nightshade, and hosting some of Minrathous’s more talented bards for the evening entertainment. Perfectly respectable Circle mages fall prey to their most base lusts, at his invitation; they put their mouths beneath fountains of wine and take liberties with the master’s slaves in barely private, pillowed alcoves.

Claudius lords over it from his perch at the head of the feasting table, drinking from a deep silver goblet crusty with emeralds.

His more beautiful bed-warmers and whores gather at his feet, or in his lap, hanging on his every word and smiling from his attentions. He prefers elves, of both sexes, dresses them in gossamer and glittering dust and hangs fine jewelry from their tapered ears. They are exotic, hailing from Seheron and Rivain and obscure Dalish tribes, and have a reputation for unusually good behavior.

Danarius’s favorite is the golden-haired youth, Hyacinth. He purchased him from the Crows in Antiva City a half-decade ago; the boy was thin and delicate and unsuited for the demands of becoming an assassin, but by all accounts, has an unusually sharp tongue and an intuition for the machinations of the Tevinter court.

Hyacinth whispers something in his master’s ear, and then looks at you from across the table.

Magister Corinius takes a seat beside you, leaning conspiratorially close. “The slave envies you.”

You smile as if he merely said something clever, and then take a ladylike sip of your wine. “That is apparent, but I should think he would be used to envy by now.”

“Do not assume that your status will protect you,” Corinius says. “He is a slave, yes, but he has Danarius’s ear. One word from Hyacinth as he warms his master’s bed, and you would be crucified before sunrise. The magister regards him more dearly than his own blood.”

“I was unaware the magister had sired a child.”

“Indeed,” Corinius says, “three of them. They reside in Qarinus, but he sees them only every summer.” 

You look upon your patron Magister Danarius more closely. He was allegedly quite handsome in his youth, and damnably charming, though he is gnarled and wasted now from years of abusing dark magics. He takes several tonics to dim the dementia-like effects of lyrium exposure, but the veins in his face are more pronounced every day, and his ears have started growing sharp.

You wonder whether it would be so bad to be Hyacinth, dressed in silk, mindlessly fawning over your master, and concerned only for the next passing day.

*

Serving as Claudius Danarius’s arch-apprentice is no hardship, as it is. Your stipend is sizeable, and your accommodations luxurious beyond imagination. You are provided with your own retinue of slaves to command and quickly become acquainted with the other inhabitants of Tenebris as well.

The slaves of the estate learn of your reputation as a blood healer and come to you for everything from common colds to broken bones, and Claudius does not mind when one or two disappear so that you might pursue academic investigations at your leisure. The slaves discover the scheme, of course, but without any choice many continue to take the risk of seeking care.

You fall into step as Danarius’s shadow, becoming the youngest woman to sit in the magisterium. You ardently take notes and record your master’s words, studying his interpretation of lawmaking and governance. He is a practical man, not easily given to fancy or idealism; for years, he has argued that the military strength of the Imperium should supersede anything else. When famine overtakes the south, he passionately implores his colleagues that they conscript the farmers for the war in Seheron, rather than dole out bread.

Confidence exists with you in perpetual sisterhood. You feel her changing, growing stronger within you, but instead of shirking in fear you embrace her warmth. Other spirits call out to you, and you tease them with half-promises and idle agreements, but you are as devoted to Confidence as she is to you.

*

Your mother comes for you one evening, dressed as if in mourning, her carriage led by low-bred horses. She dabs at her eyes with a silken handkerchief--the favor of a countryside lord--and then hands you a thick sheet of parchment bearing the seal of the Imperium. 

Your heart sinks as you read. “Can he do this?” 

“He is the Archon,” your mother says. “He can do anything he likes. I petitioned the _publicanium,_ thinking there had been some clerical mistake. They wrote an extensive reply, alleging that our House records are forgeries—that we bear no relation to Archon Hadrianus, and that because of this deception our status as _laetan_ is hereby revoked.”

“So it says.” 

“For centuries House Hadriana has endured pollution. My foolish mother married outside of the designated bloodline, and what’s worse, I suspect that the man who sired me was _soporati_ —a young laborer who tended the estate gardens _._ I wept when I grew out of adolescence without manifesting. You were our one hope.” 

“I am _still_ your hope,” you say. “I am Magister Claudius Danarius’s apprentice, who has pledged to sponsor my ascension to the magisterium. He is a mage the likes of which has not been seen in the Imperium in centuries, a purebred _altus_ with three sons for the taking.”

She gives a mirthless laugh. “Your letters describe fantasies. And if they are true, it seems to me that the soldier he creates will earn the legacy, not the apprentice girl strung along in the shadows. If you care about your family, you will offer _yourself_ up as his weapon.”

“I will not sell myself into slavery for your sake, or anyone’s,” you say firmly.

“Then you would better serve us as a corpse.”

You look away, out the carriage window, at the slaves working in the gardens. The sea churns just beyond the foliage at the edge of Claudius’s walled estate, a comforting violet in color. You wish you had the audacity to flee the carriage and let the waves take you. 

*

The elven relic is secured deep within the catacombs beneath Castellum Tenebris, and it is some time before you are permitted to lay eyes on it directly. To all appearances it looks like an ordinary, if ornate, burial sarcophagus, gilded and adorned with twisting snakes.

“I am unfamiliar with the iconography,” you say, leaning forward to touch the metal. Magister Danarius snatches your wrist, and you withdraw in placation.

“As am I,” he agrees. “In Elvhenan their greatest works were dedicated to their deities, but this was either forgotten or is something else entirely. Elgar’nan, Falon’Din, June: any number of them could have inspired it, but for what ultimate purpose is unclear. Have you read the treatise?”

“I have,” you say. “Are you certain that it isn’t a fiction? Some last desperate trick played on us by a dying empire?”

“I might have thought that, and perhaps did, until the great wolf appeared in my dreams. I had the indescribable sense of awe and anticipation, as if I were on the cusp of restoring my homeland to its former whole. I am uncertain if it was the spirit’s influence or my own heart.”

You take a step back from the sarcophagus and look upon it, aware that what seems a gift in one moment can become a terrible burden the next. “Spirits seldom offer knowledge without asking for something in return. What bargain did this great wolf demand, I wonder?”

Danarius smiles, though whether at your cleverness or his own is difficult to say. “It hardly matters to repeat, given that I never intend to uphold it.” 

*

You rap lightly on the door of your master’s chambers, wary of his preference not to be disturbed. He invites you in, and you open the heavy door to step into the annex. The magister’s apartments are seldom open to his apprentices, but you have secured his trust and discretion by now. The magister reclines on his great feather bed, entwined with his little Hyacinth in what might be mistaken as a loving embrace between equals. You know better.

Hyacinth peers at you from beneath his golden hair but says nothing.

You clear your throat and avert your gaze to the open balcony doors, where gossamer curtains flit in the briny air.

“Archon Radonis has pledged a dozen elven warriors from his personal guard to compete in House Danarius’s tourney,” you say, “but he has declined an invitation to attend himself.” 

Claudius strokes at Hyacinth’s hair, almost absently. “That is understandable. The Qunari threat commands attention.” Still, he sounds disappointed.

Hyacinth murmurs something you cannot hear, and Claudius laughs.

“Don’t be absurd, my little flower,” he chides. “You are no warrior.”

“Mm, but imagine, _dominus,_ how pretty I would look marked with lyrium,” Hyacinth says, and you cannot help but pity him. Hyacinth senses what many favored slaves eventually do: that his time is running out. “Why bother with the tournament when I am already yours?”

Claudius sighs.

He wraps his hand around Hyacinth’s throat, not quite tight enough to strangle, but enough to make him still, like a deer trapped in the maw of a predator.

“Even now you weep when I take you,” Claudius says, tone strangely gentle, discordant against the violence in his eyes. “If you want pain, little flower, there are easier ways to accomplish that without wasting lyrium on your flesh.”

*

You travel with the magister across the expanse of the Tevinter Imperium, hoping that life outside of Minrathous will clear your head as you buy and recruit potential candidates. Most tributes are slaves, though there are some volunteers: _soporati_ and _liberati_ who would gladly sell themselves again for a chance at a better life.

It is hot, dreary work, with little in the way of luxuries. You grin and bear the lack of hot water, private bathhouses, or fine-grained bread. You can never quite shake the dust from your hair. Even Hyacinth falls ill, bedridden with fever, and Claudius reluctantly commands that the caravan rest for several days out of concern for the slave’s health.

At night you and your master work by candlelight, excitedly discussing the ritual and its practical preparations. While Hyacinth sleeps, clammy and hot, you consider the potential benefits of seducing your patron. With no slaves to warm his bed, and a willing apprentice close beside him with wine sweet upon her lips, you assume it will be easy enough.

He only brushes you aside and asks you to lace up your robes.

*

The tournament begins at the Grand Proving Arena of Minrathous in early summer.

While most of the participants are your master’s property, the _quaestors_ requested that additional volunteers draw lots for a chance to compete, out of concern that the public would otherwise wrongly assume House Danarius had monopolized the institution. Claudius Danarius accepted these terms, though not quietly.

It is the day of the first seed. Thousands of souls cry out from the stonework, their faces mere blurs of screaming color. They writhe like insects, loud and frenzied, while the _laetan_ and the _altus_ classes sit sequestered in private, perfumed terraces. You have taken your place beside your patron in the most eminent terrace, attended by muted slaves who fan you in the summer heat.

Hyacinth stands at his master’s back, expression unreadable beneath a pure white veil. He has seldom spoken aloud since the incident in his master’s chambers, but you suspect he is merely biding his time.

Magister Danarius addresses the crowd, voice magnified by a spell.

“People of Minrathous,” he begins, “I, Claudius Tarquin Danarius II, Senior Enchanter of the College of Magi and Magister of the Imperial Senate, hereby welcome you. Whether you are _altus_ or _laetan_ ”—he raises his eyes to the perfumed higher terraces—“ _soporati_ or _servus_ ”—he sweeps his gaze across the lower throngs—“I bid that you take in the sights and sounds of the Proving Arena today and find pride in the true glory of the Tevinter Imperium.

“Whoever emerges victorious from this tourney will be elevated into the service of House Danarius in perpetuity. There is no greater honor in the world than to shed blood for your motherland, and the warrior who proves himself worthy will be immortalized in the Arcanist Halls as the first such weapon to turn the tide of war.”

Their cheers deafen like a thousand hives.

You clap politely for your master, smiling at him in approval.

The opening ceremony of the tourney begins. _Fugitivus_ , chained together and covered in mud and leaves, are led out into the glaring sunlight and onto a decorated wood platform. A beastly man, naked but for the iron dragon’s skull covering his head, scampers after them and begins to dance, his movements crude and erratic. He unfurls a whip and beats them with it to the delight of the crowd, a harsh growling noise emanating from the iron confines of his mask.

Danarius laughs beside you, and sips at his wine.

“The humiliation does make it sweeter,” you agree.

The man in the dragon mask brays loudly upon the field. He tips a bottle of oil down the lip of his mask, and then spits fire at the _fugitivus_ chained upon the platform, immolating them entirely. You cannot hear their screams over the roaring of the masses but can see them frantically writhing in the flames. As they burn, their deaths charge a sigil carved into the walls and earth of the arena, branding the coliseum with the glow of lyrium. Fanfare exalts the eruption of light.

“I suppose the theatricality was your idea,” you say to your master.

“Nonsense,” he says, “it was Hyacinth’s.”

Hyacinth stares through you, and you shudder, certain that he could burn you too if he were so inclined.

The first seed proceeds as expected. An elf kills another by cutting off her head. A man beats a woman to gore and keeps going long after the horn has sounded. As a trifle, Danarius commands the _praefector_ to release feral, starving wolves upon the field. The wolves disembowel several tributes alive, and Danarius forbids the mercy of a sharpshooter’s arrow, chewing dark red meat as he watches them shriek below.

*

That evening, you wander Castellum Tenebris’s gardens alone to clear your head. The estate’s walls do not afford you the opportunity to see the open ocean, but you can still hear it, powerful waves beating up against the hard stone. It isn’t long before Hyacinth creeps up beside you, dressed in satin with his hair braided elegantly down his back.

“ _Domina,_ ” he says, bowing his head. “May I walk with you?”

You accept, and the two of you fall into step.

“I knew of your silver tongue, Hyacinth, but it surprised me to learn of your capacity for cruelty as well,” you say, when it is apparent he does not wish to have the first word. “How does one in your position come to hold so much sway over an imperial magister?”

Hyacinth smiles but it doesn’t reach his cool green eyes. “Very carefully, and often not as much as you might think.”

“Still, you have impressed me. Slaves often bear some sympathy for _fugitivus,_ regardless of their personal loyalties.”

“I have no sympathy for anyone that would bite the hand that feeds them,” Hyacinth says, decisively. “I am _servus_ but I know my place, and it is one that has brought me great comfort and privilege. Many have learned that to threaten my status is to risk the cross or the pyre—and _fugitivus_ deserve that same fate.”

“You have nothing to fear from me, little flower,” you say. “I am well aware of your master’s proclivities.”

He stops to look at you coolly. “Your certainty betrays your interest.”

“I am a _laetan_ mage apprenticed to one of the most powerful magisters in the Imperium, Hyacinth. Of course I was interested. But as I stated, any seduction on my part would be fruitless. On that account you have nothing to fear—at least from me.”

You let that dark though swim about in his head. He frowns when he understands. “Perhaps we could be allies in this, _domina._ When he finds his lyrium ghost he will discard me, that is true, but consider that your own position relies on your utility.”

You consider his proposal, but it’s hardly weighted in your favor. Hyacinth has far more to gain, the wilting flower in his master’s hand, and you have much more to lose. You smile at him, and then brush past him, leaving him alone in the courtyard. “Good night, little Hyacinth.”

*

The second seed begins with another execution ceremony at the behest of the _publicanium,_ whose prisons are at capacity _._ These slaves are guilty of crimes of dishonor, ranging from theft to murder to rape. They are led blindfolded and chained into the arena and instructed to sit at its center, vulnerable and sightless with only the sound of their fates to guide them.

The smallest figure in the procession catches your eye. He is young, perhaps fourteen years old, and appears out of place among the fully grown slaves sentenced to die alongside him. While the others weep, he remains calm and still.

Danarius points at the boy and whispers to the _quaestor_ next to you, but you cannot hear what he says.

The arena gate opens and a drake, dark-scaled and feral, bolts out from the dark and onto the field. Its ankles are tethered to the arena walls with heavy chain so that it cannot fly away. It sniffs at the air, half-mad with hunger, and screeches when it spies its meal prostrate before it. It paces in the dust, scratching at the ground as it prepares to charge. Gravelly noises of hunger rattle from its throat.

It bolts for the nearest slave, tearing into his body with the audible sound of flesh ripping. The slave’s body convulses as blood spurts out onto the dusty field.

Then, the elven boy cries out, “ _Nunc!_ ”

Several slaves, including the boy, shuck off their chains as if a spell has been cast. They tear off their blindfolds and either run or try to assist those still bound in chains, but this is a mistake. The drake mauls them where they kneel, and they can only scream and attempt to shield themselves with their bare hands. The drake takes an elven woman’s throat between its teeth and shakes its head vigorously, chunks of flesh and blood sloughing off her body and scattering across the arena.

“ _Simul manere,”_ the elven boy says, crawling backwards in the dust. “ _Curre, et non morietur!”_

The drake screeches at the sky and then diverts its attention to the boy, padding at the earth as it advances on him. The boy stays startlingly still, not even curling up to protect himself from the inevitable attack. The drake hisses at him, perplexed that he does not run. It flaps its great wings, churning dust, but otherwise does not charge.

“We must stop this,” you say, as the crowd murmurs in confusion.

Claudius holds up a hand to silence you.

The drake roars, and then bolts forward, screaming fire. To your shock, it avoids the boy and the surviving slaves entirely and heads for the lower stands where the _soporati_ cry out in fear. The beast’s chain goes taut only at the last moment, yanking it backwards into the dust, and it cries angrily as it twists about the ground. The _praefector_ overseeing the match sounds the horn, and the beast-tamers sprint onto the field to attend to the drake.

It bellows at them, snapping as they attempt to calm it down. The elven boy watches, breathing hard, until an Imperial Templar snatches him by the hair and drags him off the field.

*

The arena _praefector_ leads you to where the slaves are kept in the damp and the dark like animals. The stench is unimaginable, and they die filthy in blood, shit, and vomit. Spirits haunt the darkest spaces, shadowed wraiths humming in the corners, peering at you as if conscious. It is no wonder that so many warriors go mad here. 

The elf in question sits shackled to the wall with heavy chains, his bare feet bloody and black. You carefully consider his face: beautiful, with a honeyed complexion and limpid green eyes brimming with hidden sorrow. Stringy brown hair clings to his skin from blood and sweat, but the shade is remarkably warm.

The _praefector_ slaps the boy hard across the face.

“Slave, you are in the presence of a magister. Present yourself,” he hisses. 

The elf blinks through unshed tears, gaze flitting between you and your master. He stands, the shackles clinking, but keeps his head bowed low and his eyes averted.

Claudius’s breath hisses out from between his teeth. “What is your name, child?”

A moment’s pause, as if the boy considers refusing.

“Leto, your eminence,” he says at last.

“An interesting name,” Claudius observes. “’To kill.’”

“In my mother’s tongue it means ‘light in shadow,’ your eminence.”

“Then it is fitting that you might embody both. Lady Hadriana, please qualify him.”

You nod your head and go to the elf, who flinches backward before remembering himself. The arena has not treated him kindly. You ignore his discomfort and grab his chin, tilting his head to the left, and then to the right. His pupils dilate and his breath fans out against your hand. You force his mouth open to ensure he still retains his teeth. You twist a lock of his hair around your finger and tug, pleased when it remains firm and unbroken. His skin is soft, but his hands are calloused—a swordsman’s grip.

“He is in excellent condition, all things considered,” you say. “For what crime was he sentenced?”

“He murdered another slave,” the _praefector_ says. “His master granted him his choice of death. Rather than submit to the noose or the cross he elected to be sold to the _ludus._ ” 

“Resilient little thing,” Claudius observes, almost to himself. “Not many would choose such a fate, let alone a child.”

“He is no mere child. He is a fork-tongued _scortillum_ who has survived every execution out of spite.”

Claudius takes Leto’s chin in his hand, forcing his gaze upon him. Leto’s defiance is quiet and simmering, a passive sort of resistance that only manifests as hatred in those pretty green eyes. With what you know of Magister Danarius, the man will find it amusing more than anything else.

“If I burden myself with you,” Claudius says, “will you reward me with the same respect that you have provided the _praefectors_ of this _ludus_?”

“No, your eminence _,_ ” Leto says. “I will do as I have always done.”

“Which is?”

“Survive.”


End file.
